


The Keeper

by miasmatik



Series: Watcher 'verse [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (in every sense), (kinda), (last part), Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Character Death, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Horror, Illustrated, M/M, Suspense, Suspicious Intentions, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-26 05:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatik/pseuds/miasmatik
Summary: The FBI investigates the latest Ripper murder, new players enter the game, and dinner is served.[Sequel to "The Watcher"][[NOW COMPLETE]]





	1. The Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, so I wrote the original story without a sequel even in mind, and now I have ~10k words of follow-up fic, so I hope you’re ready. Everything has already been written, but I’ll be uploading one chapter a day to space it out.
> 
> I highly recommend you re-read the first story (time and willpower permitting). This part begins slightly after it, but more or less is a direct continuation.
> 
>  

“Something’s changed, Dr. Lecter.”

Jack Crawford taps a pen against the desk, irritation plain on his face. He sighs and looks down to the case files spread out between them. 

“Something’s changed, and I need you to help me figure out what it is.”

Hannibal follows his gaze over the photographs and police reports strewn across the desk, then takes a seat. 

“Is this about the Ripper, Jack?”

Jack sets the pen down and runs both hands over his face. There’s an empty mug next to where his elbow rests on mahogany. Coffee grains speckle the inside rim, and a layer of stained rings suggests this was far from the first cup. Hannibal can tell by smell alone, the whole office bitter with the scent of cheap roast.

“I’m sorry for calling you in here today,” Jack says, clasping his palms. His eyes rove over the temporary guest badge clipped to the doctor’s suit pocket. “But yes, this is about him. I know most of your consulting work is done on a remote basis, but you’ve been very valuable in helping us refine our profile on the Ripper. I thought it best to talk to you about this one in person.”

Hannibal allows a slight smile to curl his lips. 

“I am happy to assist in any way that I can.” 

He leans forward and picks up one of the photos. “The girl found in Virginia?”

“Morgan Hall,” Jack confirms. “26 years old. Originally from South Carolina, but she had a small apartment in Dundalk she’d been living in for the last three years. Her roommate reported her missing two weeks ago.”

Hannibal takes in the cheerful girl in the photograph, laughing with an arm around a friend. He places the image back on the desk. The picture beside it bears a markedly different tone, and he holds it up to get a better look.

Jack grimaces. 

“The crime scene was discovered off a service road only a few locals use. Most of them thought someone had just put up a scarecrow, until one of them finally took a closer look. Crows had picked apart a lot by the time we got to her. We had to use dental records to identify the body.”

A ghoulish, toothy grin leers out from where lips and cheeks have been pecked clean. One button hangs from an empty eye socket.

“The Ripper likes to have an audience for his work, so why would he put her somewhere so far out of the way? But that’s not the only thing. The property the body was found on fell within the Wolf Trap CDP limits. The victim before her was a resident of Wolf Trap as well.”

Hannibal looks up.

“I remember. But are you sure Ms. Hall is the work of the Ripper, Jack?”

“The circumstances make it seem unlikely, but everything else about the murder follows his MO. Missing organs, theatrical display, surgical precision. No trace of DNA. Our analysts think she was mutilated while still alive and,” Jack swallows, “stuffed and decorated after death. I’m convinced it’s him. The only possible explanation is that something’s changed.”

“With the Ripper?”

Jack nods. 

“The victims have no other connections we’ve been able to find. The victim before them, the first in this trinity, had no link to Wolf Trap at all. Outside of Baltimore, when has the Ripper ever been linked to the same location twice? Something happened between the second and third kill that made him focus in on this place.” 

Hannibal leans against one armrest, runs a thumb along his jaw. Morgan’s corpse stares up from the photograph in his lap.

“You may be correct, but it might not help you catch him. You know as well as I do that it’s possible the coincidence is a red herring. Perhaps he only wants to throw off the investigation by directing search efforts elsewhere. He does enjoy toying with you, Jack.”

Jack frowns. “My gut is telling me that I’m not wrong.”

Hannibal gives him a pleasant look.

“I’m not doubting your instincts. I know they’ve served you well. Merely speculating on alternate possibilities.” 

Some of the tension in Jack’s shoulders bleeds out.

“I know, Dr. Lecter. You’re right. It’s possible this is a dead end, but right now it’s what we’ve got. We know that the Ripper’s been there more than once, and unlike the city, strangers tend to stick out in small towns. If there’s even a chance someone saw something, I think it’s worth looking into.”

Hannibal glances down, thumbs over rope circling a bruised neck. He places the photo back on the desk and settles his expression into something appropriate.

“I agree. We have nothing to lose, only truth to gain.”

Jack leans back, a tired smile on his face. He reaches for the mug before he realizes it’s empty. He pauses, scratches his chin.

“Let’s hope so.”

 

*

 

Tattlecrime posts pictures of the crime scene later that afternoon.

Less clinical and more voyeuristic, the images are mostly distance shots. FBI agents huddled on the roadside, casting furtive glances towards the field. A crucified form looming over a far-off horizon. A stretcher being loaded into the back of a van, lumpy under white cloth. Crows hovering overhead.

Hannibal skims through the gallery as a bowl of kidneys soak in the sink.

_THIRD RIPPER KILL STUMPS FBI_ , the title announces. 

_Investigators are no closer to naming a suspect after the gruesome murder tableau was discovered yesterday morning. Wolf Trap residents are on high alert after the second Ripper killing connected to town. The body of John Dunham, a local attorney, was found in a courthouse beside his Baltimore practice last month. His car was discovered in the woods near his house a week ago_.

Hannibal taps the screen, expands on an image of Jack barking orders to a technician. There’s a scattered crowd of civilians watching from the background.

_A local source claims the area has a history of strange disappearances, often attributed to wild animals. Is it possible the Ripper has been killing here for years and is only making it known now? Or could there be another killer loose in this small country town?_

Water bubbles on the stove. Hannibal puts the tablet down to measure out a couple cups of diced potatoes. He pours them into the pot and covers it with a lid. Places a buttered saucepan on a burner to heat.

_The Ripper may go dormant for now_ , the article concludes, _but I will do whatever it takes to find the answers my readers deserve_.

 

*

 

Two knocks on the front door.

“Good evening, Will.”

The man on the doorstep returns his grin.

“Likewise, Dr. Lecter. Thank you for the invitation.”

Will steps inside the foyer. He starts to remove his coat, but Hannibal places a hand on his arm. Gestures for him to turn around. The older man pulls the fabric away when Will complies, thumbs lingering beneath the lapels. He untwists the scarf from Will’s neck and hangs both articles of clothing in the hallway closet. 

“Dinner is almost ready,” Hannibal says. “This way, please.” 

Will follows further into the house. Peers up at a stag skull mounted on the wall, a cluster of surgical illustrations hanging to its left. He squints at the detailing of a disemboweled abdomen before trailing Hannibal into the dining room. 

“European sensibilities are far more forgiving of the unconventional,” Hannibal offers when Will’s eyebrows climb at the sight of Leda and the swan over the mantelpiece.

“Of course,” Will concedes. “Nothing odd about a foreign doctor with a tasteful penchant for death and obscenity.”

“No more odd than a man who does not formally exist.” 

Hannibal pulls out a chair.

He waits until the younger man has taken a seat before leaving to retrieve the Cabernet Franc he’d left in the kitchen to breathe. He keeps an eye on the dining room window as he picks up the bottle, observes the reflection of Will framed against the darkened backyard.

Will turns and meets his eyes in the glass. 

Hannibal returns to the room.

“No whiskey this evening, I’m afraid.” He leans over the other man’s shoulder to pour a glass. Ventures a soft inhale before he rounds to his own side of the table and does the same. “Wine will pair much better with the food.”

Will picks up the glass, breathes in. “I trust your judgment.”

Hannibal places the bottle between them and excuses himself to finish plating. He assembles each component, wipes a speck of sauce from the edge of one dish, and walks back to the table.

“Traditional lamb kidneys in a Madeira wine sauce, paired with shiitake mushrooms and herb-roasted white rose potatoes. Garnished with fresh sprigs of rosemary.”

He sets each plate down. 

“I’ve never had lamb before,” Will admits. 

“I think you’ll find the flavor pleasant enough. My butcher is known for selecting only the best cuts.” 

Hannibal takes his seat. He picks up his glass and raises it. 

“To quality meat and even better company.”

Will toasts, his smile unwavering.

They drink.

Hannibal pierces a wedge of lamb with his fork and watches the other man do the same. Notes the furrow between Will’s eyebrows after the first bite, the swallow rippling his throat. A glint of tooth as the fork disappears between his lips again.

“This is delicious,” Will hums, voice pleased. He looks up. “If psychiatry doesn’t work out, I bet you’d make a great personal chef.”

Hannibal smiles. “It’s always a pleasure to cook for an appreciative audience.”

“Have you ever had an unappreciative audience?”

He shakes his head. “Only the occasionally reluctant.” 

“Do you enjoy that as well? Changing their minds?” 

Will licks a droplet of sauce off his fork. He picks up the knife beside his plate and examines the steel in the low light. 

“You’re a confident man, Dr. Lecter.”

Will thumbs along the knife’s handle before slicing into a mushroom. 

“Persuasive, no doubt. Even my dogs seem to like you.”

Hannibal cants his head, keeps his face blank to avoid letting his intrigue shine through. Will takes another bite, and he has to ask.

“How are your dogs?” 

A frown creases the younger man’s forehead. “Restless.”

“Restless?”

“I think I mentioned before that just the slightest thing sets them off. More or less any car that even drives by gets them all riled up, itching to give chase.”

Hannibal waits as Will works through another few mouthfuls. The clink of cutlery punctuates empty airspace.

“Well, there’s been a lot of commotion around lately. More visitors than we usually get in a year.”

“Oh?” Hannibal curls fingers around the stem of his wineglass. 

“Yeah,” Will continues. He eyes the eggs nestled within the table’s floral centerpiece. “I’m not sure I can keep them leashed too much longer.”

Hannibal pauses with the glass half to his lips. He stares at the other man over the rim and takes a slow sip.

“And what about you, Will?”

“Me?” 

“How are you?”

Will rests his knife against the plate. He lifts his glass with his other hand, tips it towards himself, and pauses a moment in thought. Then he smirks into the ruby-black liquid.

“I think I’m beginning to have fun.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It shows pretty clearly in the show that Hannibal freezes parts from some of his kills. It’s also heavily hinted at that he kills more people than he displays. Either explanation could suffice for the “lamb” kidneys, since we all know where the last set of Ripper organs went. ;)
> 
> Anyways, thank you everyone for the support! (especially to [wadedurnt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wadedurnt) for recc'ing the original story for [Fresh Meat Friday](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Fresh_Meat_Friday)!) I've been posting work in this fandom for less than a month now, so it really means a lot, and I wouldn’t have been nearly as inspired to continue the story without all of you. Hope it proves suitably rewarding. 
> 
> (find me reblogging Hannigram and posting my art [here](https://miasmatik.tumblr.com/))


	2. The Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (if anyone has forgotten, John Dunham is the lawyer Hannibal killed in the first scene of the original story)

Hannibal drives to Wolf Trap the next morning.

He pulls into the parking lot of a diner advertising the best coffee in town. Only a handful of cars sit out front, their metal spotted with raindrops from an earlier storm. 

The inside of the building is much like the exterior, a cobbled collection of retro paraphernalia and dated color schemes. A waitress looks up from behind the counter when he walks in. He shakes his head politely as she reaches for a menu and suppresses a grimace when the floor sticks to his shoe.

Jack waves at him from a few booths over. 

“Dr. Lecter, thank you for coming out.”

He moves over so Hannibal can sit, gestures to the woman sitting on the other side.

“This is Miriam Lass, my newest agent handling the Ripper case. Miriam, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Hannibal smiles and extends his arm. “Pleased to meet you.”

The blonde agent regards him for a beat. She gives him a brusque handshake before turning back towards Jack.

“I’m telling you sir, she’s is a tabloid journalist but her story checks out. The Fairfax county PD has several missing person cases on file. The first one recorded in the 1940s, the last one four years ago. No obvious connections or patterns between the disappearances, but there could be more to it.” 

Jack sighs. 

“Agent Lass, I put you on this case to investigate the Ripper. Not follow leads from Freddie Lounds of all people. I’ve looked over the files myself. There’s nothing there. No evidence of any foul play. Local police found plausible explanations in every other case.”

Miriam frowns. “But they never found any bodies, living or dead. Nine people have gone missing in this town. No closure for any of them. Do you realize how strange that is, Jack? The same small town two Ripper victims have just been linked to?”

“Jack is right,” Hannibal interjects. Miriam casts a vexed glance in his direction but allows him to continue. “The likelihood that these missing persons are attributable to the Ripper is slim. He would have to be much older than we’ve surmised, and the physicality of his kills suggests a man no older than his forties, perhaps fifties.”

“I’m not saying they’re the work of the Ripper himself, just that there could be a connection. Maybe the Ripper knows something about them.”

Hannibal considers this, meets the determination in the agent’s eyes.

“It’s an interesting hypothesis,” he says. 

“And one we have no means to currently explore,” Jack replies. “Most of those cases have been cold for decades. Our priority is investigating the homicides in front of us now.”

Miriam looks like she wants to say more, but Jack holds up his hand. “We can discuss this later, but I asked Dr. Lecter here to introduce you two. I’d like you to take him with you to interview Mrs. Dunham.”

“Jack, he’s a civilian,” she begins. Her frown is back in place.

“Yes, but one who’s been consulting on the Ripper case for nearly two years. And given the circumstances, I can use as many expert opinions as I can get.”

“I promise to not get in your way,” Hannibal adds. 

She scrutinizes him with thinly veiled annoyance. He keeps his shoulders lax, chin angled down, and trusts her to write off his attire as that of a wealthy academic unaccustomed to field work. Flamboyant, out of his depth, but cooperative.

“Fine,” she says, eventually. 

Jack nods, picks up his menu, and that’s that for a while.

It isn’t until they’re leaving the diner that Hannibal glances at the other booths. 

The storm has picked up again outside, and most customers have already left. Only one remains, seated in the corner. He’s hunched over the table. His head, propped up against a palm, is turned towards the window. A flit of lightning obscures the lenses of his glasses, but Hannibal feels eyes on him all the same.

He opens his umbrella and steps outside. 

Hannibal bids farewell to Jack as he slides into the passenger seat of the younger agent’s car. Jack claps him on the shoulder and shuts the door, heads across the parking lot towards his own SUV. 

Miriam slides behind the wheel and tosses her umbrella in the backseat. She starts the engine, swivels her head to check the rear windshield as she shifts the car into reverse.

Hannibal’s gaze is fixed out the front, but the rain is too thick to see through.

 

*

 

“The police have already taken my statement,” Mrs. Dunham clips as she opens the screen door. She still lets them in.

She nods to the umbrella rack, gestures absently towards a living room sofa and sits down on the worn leather recliner facing it. Her eyes are rimmed in red, but her stare doesn’t waver as they take their seats.

“Is this because of the girl they found the other day? Because if that’s it, I can tell you that I have no idea who she is and I doubt John did either.”

“We’re just making sure we cover all our bases,” Miriam assures her. The agent pulls a notebook out of her jacket pocket and offers a sympathetic smile. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”

Hannibal, true to his word, stays out of the way.

Mrs. Dunham is grieving, but he can tell some part of her is relieved. Overwhelmed, perhaps, by the abruptness and circumstances. But relieved to be free of the subpar thing she called her husband. He’s not surprised. Mr. Dunham had been particularly nerveless heading into slaughter. 

He observes Miriam as well, her dogged questions smoothed over by tact and delivery. A friendlier front than she granted him, but he admires the laser-sharp quality of her focus. She’s a good agent. He can see why Jack respects her. 

He also knows she will need to be dealt with, and likely soon.

“What time did your husband usually leave work?” Miriam asks.

Mrs. Dunham purses her lips. “It depended. On whether he’d been drinking or not.” 

“How often did your husband drink?”

“More than he would admit. John had a problem. He didn’t think so, of course, but sometimes I wouldn’t see him until the next morning.”

A quick jot in the notebook, then the agent looks up.

“Did you have any contact with your husband the night he disappeared?”

Wind chimes rattle out on the front porch. Raindrops drum against the roof, and a low rumble of thunder rolls off in the distance.

“I spoke to him on the phone.”

Miriam glances at Hannibal before looking back to the other woman. Mrs. Dunham continues without further prompting.

“He was still at the office, around maybe seven. Said he was staying late and not to wait up. He was drunk.”

“Did he tell you he’d been drinking?”

Mrs. Dunham shakes her head. “I could tell.”

The agent pauses. “How could you tell?”

“John rambled about things when he was drinking. He spent the first couple minutes complaining about someone banging around outside the office. He kept talking about how he could never get any work done with all the street noise. Then he started yelling about coyotes and how it wouldn’t matter if he came home or not, if he couldn’t sleep through the damn things howling all night.”

Hannibal turns to Mrs. Dunham. “May I ask a question of my own?”

She blinks at him like she’d forgotten he was there. Miriam narrows her eyes but continues scribbling in the notebook, doesn’t protest when he pushes on.

“Had he complained about animals disturbing him at night before?”

“Not until recently. But yes, he’d been irritated about it a lot.”

“Do you hear them as well?”

Mrs. Dunham frowns. 

“No,” she says. “I never hear anything.”

Hannibal thanks her and resumes his silence.

Miriam finishes up with a few final questions, then hands Mrs. Dunham her business card. They walk back to the car in the fading storm.

She turns on him when the doors are closed. “Why did you ask her that?”

“We still do not know when the Ripper took John Dunham that night. Given where his car was found, it’s likely it was close to home.”

Miriam nods. “Right.”

“I was curious how lightly Mrs. Dunham slept.”

“In case she might have seen or heard the Ripper? That’s not all.”

Hannibal sighs. “No. I admit I’ve been thinking about a possible connection between the Ripper victims and the missing people. I recall Ms. Lounds mentioning something about one of the disappearances in her last article, that a victim reported hearing wolves in the woods shortly before he went missing? Perhaps it’s a stretch.” 

The agent tilts her head. “I’m not sure it’s much to go on, but I’ll check it out.” 

Hannibal smiles. “Jack won’t be pleased to know I’m encouraging you on this.”

Miriam turns back to the wheel. She drums her fingers along the top, glances out at the trees. The cloud cover has receded slightly, a haze of midday sunlight peeking through, but rain still obscures much of the surrounding woods.

She raises one shoulder. 

“I won’t tell him if you won’t.”

 

*

 

“You didn’t tell me you were going to be in town.”

Hannibal doesn’t look up from his book. He’d spent the evening in front of the fireplace, thumbing through a couple volumes of poetry. No company aside from his own.

Will’s breath is nearly on the back of his neck.

“I didn’t want to presume.”

“Presume what?” Will asks.

“That you would want to know.”

Will draws back. 

He walks to the other wingback chair beside the fire and takes a seat, props his feet up on the footrest. He has a glass of bourbon in one hand. Hannibal recognizes his own glassware, the scent of expensive liquor.

“You don’t know what I want.”

The fire crackles between them.

“Just stating the facts,” Will shrugs. Knocks back his drink. 

“I may have an idea or two.”

“What do you think?”

Hannibal slips a bookmark between the pages, closes the book. “Why not tell me?”

Will wags a finger, his eyes playful.

“Don’t be obtuse, Doctor. You’ve managed to figure things out pretty well so far on your own.”

Hannibal looks at him. Really looks at him, at the invisible seams where his flesh is unblemished and human. He’d rip each of them open if it meant he could truly look beneath. He still wanted to, if only to hear Will’s scream.

“It seems I may have taken something of yours. It seems as though you wanted a replacement. Perhaps you would like another. But I confess I have yet to reach a definitive conclusion,” he says.

Will tips his head, looks to the flames. “Do you want to know what I think?”

Hannibal waits.

“I think you haven’t really been worrying about it.”

Will drops the glass to the floor.

“I think you’re just curious to see where this all goes.”

He cracks a vertebrae in his neck, rolls his shoulders.

“But I think, despite everything, you still feel like you’re in control.”

Will closes his eyes and leans back. Hannibal watches him, silent.

“Do you feel in control, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal places the book on a side table and stands. 

He lingers, just for a second, before walking over to the other chair. His shadow paints the other man in semi-darkness, the casual sprawl of his body blending with the lines of the furniture. Still as a corpse and as equally breathless. 

Hannibal leans over and picks up the glass. He stays crouched before Will. Imagines drawing a knife over the motionless expanse of his chest, just deep enough to see if red would bleed through, and waits for the other man to open his eyes.

“I somehow doubt it matters,” is all Hannibal says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we have everyone here, the fun can begin~


	3. The Meeting

_DEMONIC URBAN LEGENDS OF WOLF TRAP UNEARTHED!_

_For more than half a century, stories of the otherworldly have haunted this small Virginia town. Now, a local source is spilling all the sordid details they claim explain a history of unsolved disappearances. Has the Ripper found inspiration in this local mythology? Or have the latest Ripper killings truly overlapped with workings of the supernatural? These incredible tales just may be true!_

_Read the full story **here** on Tattlecrime.com._

Hannibal reads every word.

 

*

 

“Unbelievable,” Jack says. “Now we have people worrying about evil spirits on top of our very real serial killer.”

Hannibal shifts the phone against his ear, skims through the article as they speak. “Only the highly superstitious will lay any weight on Ms. Lounds’ claims. The story is harmless, Jack.” 

“It’s not harmless; the main focus of our investigation is now a tourist attraction for wannabe ghost hunters. The Ripper could be hiding out in plain sight. We had a group trying to hold a séance at the crime scene last night, for God’s sake.”

“Old superstitions die hard.” Hannibal grins.

Jack grumbles something to someone on the other end, then speaks back into the phone. “We don’t have time for this. The longer we wait, the colder the trail is going to get and we have no idea when he’ll start killing again.”

“Have you considered contacting Ms. Lounds? Perhaps she could be persuaded to cooperate with the investigation.”

“Agent Lass is trying to contact her and get the name of her source. Aside from the superstitious drivel, Lounds published details about the two Ripper victims that hadn’t been released to the public. Who she got the information from is anyone’s guess, but we know she has at least one local contact that’s been more than willing to talk.”

Hannibal checks the time. He closes the webpage and moves the phone to his other ear. “Keep me updated, Jack. Unfortunately, I have a patient coming in a bit so I must insist we resume this discussion later.”

“Alright.” Jack pauses. “You hold appointments this late?”

“Only for my favorite clients,” Hannibal jests.

A brief laugh follows and Jack wishes him a good night. Hannibal hangs up the phone, places it back on the desk. He holds up Freddie Lounds’ address. 

He turns off the lights as he leaves the office.

 

*

 

Several days later, Miriam knocks on his door.

“Hi,” she says when he opens it. “Sorry for dropping by unannounced, but I needed to talk with you.

Hannibal casts a look over his shoulder and remains standing in the doorframe.

“I apologize Agent Lass, but I’m with someone at the moment. Would you mind waiting until the hour is up?”

Her eyes flit to the office past the door then back to his face. The agent smiles, but it borders a grimace. “Yes, of course.”

“It’s alright,” a voice behind Hannibal speaks up. “I can leave early.”

Will stands, grabs his coat off the back of the chair. He fishes the glasses out of his shirt collar and pushes them back up his nose. Offers a shy smile. Miriam holds a hand up and voices a half-hearted protest, but Will slides into his jacket and continues. 

“I don’t want to intrude if this is important.”

The younger man looks between Hannibal and the agent as he walks to the door. He avoids making eye contact with Miriam, only glances at her around the frames of his glasses in deference. Almost unnoticeably, he brushes a dog hair from his sleeve.

Hannibal’s fascination is endless.

“Are you an FBI agent?” Will asks, standing next to him in the doorframe. 

Miriam nods, face brightening. “You must know Dr. Lecter has been helping with the Ripper investigation. Thank you for your understanding.”

Will scratches the back of his neck. “I feel like I should be thanking you. With all the crazy stuff that’s been going on, it’s nice to know someone’s looking out for us.”

He turns to Hannibal. “I guess I’ll see you at our next dinner?”

Hannibal supplies an affable smile. “I look forward to it.”

Miriam watches the interaction silently. She steps back when Will moves to leave the office. He sends her a small wave before departing. 

“Was that a patient or a friend of yours?” 

Her tone suggests that she doesn’t care either way about the answer, mind already back on other things. Hannibal ushers her into the room and closes it behind himself.

“Not a patient, although I am not sure ‘friend’ would be the correct term,” He says, curious to see her reaction. She gives an absent bob of her head and lets it go.

“I’m sorry for interrupting.” She drops a few files on the desk. “But I found out some things and wasn’t sure who else to talk to.”

Hannibal walks up to her, concern in his eyes. “Is this about the missing people?”

“Yes,” Miriam flips through a couple folders. She reshuffles them once she’s pulled out what she’s looking for. “Ever since Freddie Lounds published that last article, Jack hasn’t wanted to hear about any of it. He thinks it’s all fabricated and that Lounds is just baiting viewers, using the ‘superstitious locals’ angle to cover up a likely police source.”

“That would explain the details she published about the Ripper murders,” Hannibal says. “If her informant is in law enforcement, she could have much greater access to information about the case. Were you able to contact Ms. Lounds and ask her yourself?”

Her expression darkens. 

“No, she hasn’t returned any of my calls. I’ve gone to her apartment twice, but she either wasn’t there or was pretending not to be. Jack thinks we might be able to subpoena her to reveal her source if she publishes anything else, but for now we can’t do much. Not enough proof.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“It is. But Dr. Lecter, what you pointed out before stuck with me.” Miriam looks up from the paper, gnaws on her bottom lip. “That’s why I’m here. The noises. There was nothing reported in the case of Morgan Hall, but I went back and scoured the files and newspaper clippings for each of the missing persons cases. I even called the surviving relatives of a few of them, managed to get a couple of them to agree to answer my questions.” 

Her hands shake just the slightest, Hannibal notes, where she grips a copy of a missing persons report. 

“In at least six of the nine cases, the ‘victims’ mentioned hearing strange noises. All of them described animal sounds. One woman actually told her husband she saw something like a large dog on their back porch, the night before she disappeared. That’s one of the reasons police wrote them off as wildlife attacks. But there was never any concrete evidence to back that up, because no one but the people who went missing reported anything.”

Hannibal frowns, sifts through the collection of interview logs spread out on the desk. He pulls up the notes from their interview earlier in the week. “Mrs. Dunham had not noticed anything either.”

“No,” Miriam agrees, her eyes somewhat manic as she skims over the papers. “She didn’t. It’s unbelievable, and I still think there must be a logical explanation, but what if Freddie Lounds is onto something? What if there really is something, something other going on here?” 

“What are you suggesting, Agent Lass?”

Miriam gasps. 

She drops the file she’d been holding. Papers fan out of it, an array of print and images spilling over the hardwood floor. Her fingers remain curled in a phantom grasp but the tremors in her hand increase. She looks to the door, the windows, the fireplace, then back to Hannibal. The blood has drained from her face.

“Did you hear that?” she whispers.

Hannibal meets her eyes, leans in. “Hear what?”

“I,” Miriam swivels her head around, bumps against the edge of the desk as she turns her back away from the windows. “I don’t know.”

“What did it sound like?”

She drags in a breath. “I don’t know.”

Hannibal considers her, considers the silence of the room. 

“Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with the case,” he suggests. 

He reaches out a hand to rest on her arm. She moves back a step on instinct. Miriam stares at him for a moment longer, expression still frozen in a confused sort of panic, before she glances down to the papers beneath her feet.

“Yeah,” she says. “You’re probably right.” 

She looks like she doesn’t believe it. 

Hannibal doesn’t believe it either. 

“An exhausted mind can play tricks on you, especially one under great duress.”

He bends down to start picking up papers and shoots her a placating smile. Miriam swallows. Then she slumps forward to help clear the floor. 

“I’ve been so occupied with the case, I haven’t really been sleeping,” she confesses. 

Hannibal shuffles a stack of paper on his knee. He runs his fingers along their edge to check that each is in line, examines the Xeroxed print. 

“You’ve stumbled upon something very interesting, Agent Lass. If you could part with these for the night, I’d like to look over what you’ve gathered and see if I can make any further inferences. Would you be amenable to coming back here tomorrow night? After you’ve had some rest, of course.”

Miriam cants her head towards the window again, but says nothing. Only a few seconds pass before she hands over the case files in her hand. Visibly does her best to appear unaffected.

“Sure, I’ll see you then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	4. The Call

The tie slides from his neck, silk whispering across the cloth of his shirt as he pulls it away. Hannibal winds the fabric into a crisp roll and tucks it into the appropriate drawer. When he turns back to the mirror, he makes a point to look at Will’s reflection leaning against the bedroom doorframe behind him.

“It is a shame,” he says, “that so few have the pleasure of being in awe of you.” 

Will scoffs. “Not all of us are such shameless showmen.”

“You have more fans than ever,” Hannibal points out. He unbuttons his vest, mindful of the eyes trailing him. 

“Whose fault is that?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“Really?”

The older man hides a smile. 

“I suppose I had some part in it. As did Freddie Lounds, certainly.” Hannibal concedes. He shrugs out of the vest, walks over to the closet to hang it. “I attempted to rectify the situation.”

Will’s stare burns against his back. “Attempted?”

“She is more elusive than I would have expected.”

Hannibal thumbs open the top two buttons beneath his collar and turns to face the other man. Will has not moved, still propped against wood paneling and backlit by the hallway. He watches Hannibal unbuckle his watch, remove his belt. Remains standing there, even as the older man shrugs out of his dress shirt, and doesn’t say a word. Not until Hannibal sits at the edge of the bed and begins to unlace his shoes does Will speak.

“Are you ready to find out?”

Hannibal peers up through his fringe, fingers unraveling each knot. “I assume we are no longer discussing Ms. Lounds.”

Will tilts further into the light, and his eyes flicker.

“What I want,” he clarifies. 

“I thought you had little interest in telling me.”

“I don’t need to tell you.”

Hannibal has learned when and when not to talk where Will is concerned. He toes off each shoe and straightens his spine, fixes his eyes on the newly framed drawing beside the doorway. Cerberus snarls from behind the glass.

“I’m going to show you.”

Will has gone when he looks back.

 

*

 

Freddie has not returned to her apartment in days.

Hannibal knows because he has checked every night, walking past her building with his coat pulled up against his neck and a pleasant smile for any other evening strollers. Her apartment window has remained dark. 

For the second time this week, Hannibal picks the lock. 

He listens carefully for any sounds within the room beyond, any sign that he was wrong in his calculation, but there is nothing. He opens the door and walks in. Stacks of paper lay scattered around the living space. All still in the same places they were the first night he invited himself in, the night he spoke with Jack. A laptop rests on the table in front of the small kitchen window, also untouched. The dishes soaking in the sink are flecked with food particles. A fruit fly flits above them.

Hannibal returns to her bedroom and takes in the half-made sheets. He opens the closet and sees the suitcase still propped against the wall inside. With latex gloved hands, Hannibal unzips it. Confirms that it is empty and untouched.

He stands and casts another glance around the room. His eyes catch on the bedside table furthest from the door. On something he does not remember seeing before. 

A draft of an article.

The printed copy is undated, but it’s different than the one most recently posted to Tattlecrime. He realizes that it’s less an article than a series of notes that have been cobbled together and remarked upon. In them, Freddie has detailed the police report for one of the disappearances. She’s tied circumstantial evidence and the victim’s life history into a greater web of speculation, one that encompasses local legends about hauntings in the woods. About bargains with devils. It’s an elaboration on the material she has already published, if even more sensationalized. But it is nothing new. 

He flips through the papers, skimming over each line and every comment she has scribbled in the margins. The last paper in the stack gives him pause. It’s an empty page, already formatted to the Tattlecrime web outline, with only one sentence splashed across the top.

_Tragic twist in Ripper investigation as nightmare befalls Wolf Trap church._

There’s nothing else on the page, no side notes or words written on the back. There have been no other reports about this. Miriam had not mentioned anything. Jack would have called if something so substantial had occurred.

Hannibal places the paper down. He goes back to her notes and scours them for any mention of a source. Any name he can place to the information she’s been supplied with. 

He finds nothing, but he thinks he already knows.

 

*

 

Miriam has barely stepped into Hannibal’s office when her phone rings.

She apologizes and digs her hand into her pocket, checks the caller ID. She frowns at the screen. It rings a few more times fruitlessly as her thumb hovers over the phone. Before she can take any action, the call disconnects.

Hannibal tracks the shifts across her face. “Not an important call?”

The agent lets her arm fall to her side, phone still clutched between her fingers.

“I’m not sure,” Miriam walks into the room but doesn’t settle. She walks to the desk, the chairs, then back. “The ID was blocked. It’s been happening on and off all week. I’ll answer it, and every time, no one’s on the other end.”

She brings her hand up to her mouth, seems to bite against her thumbnail without consciously deciding to do so. The nervous energy she carried the day before has only intensified, the manic edge to her eyes no less. She pauses before the patient chair and stares down at the cushion. Doesn’t take a seat. 

“Does Jack know you’re being harassed?” 

Miriam laughs. It comes out an anxious, brittle thing. 

“Jack already thinks I’m crazy for listening to anything Freddie Lounds has to say. He’s single-mindedly focused on the Ripper right now. I haven’t even told him I’ve been talking to you about this. I haven’t told him anything.”

Hannibal moves to stand in front of her. 

The phone rings.

The agent pulls it back up to her face, checks the screen. Her eyes widen.

“It’s Freddie Lounds.”

She taps the screen and lifts it to her ear, beginning to pace again. “Hello, Ms. Lounds? This is Miriam Lass, I’m with the FBI and I’ve been trying to get in touch with-”

Miriam stops in her tracks. Her nostrils flare as she listens to the other end of the line, her feet rooted in place. She blinks several times in rapid succession.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Hannibal looks to her in concern. She looks back with more than a twinge of uneasiness, pulls the phone away from her ear. Presses the speaker button. 

The voice that crackles out of the phone is distorted and dark.

“I know what happened to the missing people, Agent Lass.”

“Who is this?” Miriam demands. Her words are sure, but her tone wobbles. “Why do you have this number?”

The voice exhales in what sounds like a chuckle. “I’m Freddie Lounds’ source.”

It doesn’t address the second question, but a scream on the other line answers it anyways.

“P-please, please help me,” a woman pleads, muffled by static. She sobs into the phone. Her voice is hoarse but she keeps speaking, frantic with the need to be heard. “Please, please, please, help me, I’m sorry, I don’t want to die. I don’t-”

A dark laugh, then she screams. Her cries recede into the background when the original caller returns to the phone.

“I know what happened to John Dunham.”

Freddie continues yelling and screaming and crying as the voice presses on.

“I know what happened to Morgan Hall.” 

The phone shakes where the agent holds it out, where they both stare as the shrill sounds of anguish and desperation cut through the office.

Then, with a facsimile of nonchalance, the voice speaks again. 

“And I know the identity of the Ripper.”

Miriam draws breath. Hannibal holds his.

“I also know what’s going to happen to Ms. Lounds if you do not meet me here, tonight, at the Old Haven Church in Wolf Trap. I’ll give you an hour and a half. See you soon, Agent Lass.”

A click, then the line is dead.

A moment drags on in suspended animation, where neither one ventures a response. The air is static between them. Both pairs of eyes remain fixed on the phone.

The agent snaps back first.

“I have to tell Jack,” she says, staring at the end call screen. The color is gone from her face but her voice buzzes with anticipation.

Hannibal does not have to fake the disbelief still written across his features. He manages to place a hand over hers, meet her eyes with resolve. “Get your car and find the address. I’ll call him. Then we’ll drive over there together and wait for back-up.”

She looks up from the phone and balks. “I’m not bringing you. This is too dangerous.”

Hannibal pulls his own phone from his pocket, opens up the contacts list. “I am a licensed medical doctor, Agent Lass. If Ms. Lounds is injured, I am capable of providing emergency assistance.”

Miriam shifts her jaw, tightens the grip on her phone. She stuffs it into her jacket and pulls out car keys instead.

“Call 911 too. Tell them to get out everyone they have.”

Hannibal nods. He waits until Miriam has turned to leave, then closes out of the contacts screen. He holds the phone up to his ear. Tries not to grin.

“Hello, Jack? We have an emergency.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be posting the final 2 parts together, tomorrow. Be on the lookout ;)


	5. The Church

“Do you think it was him all along?”

Hannibal watches Miriam from the passenger’s seat, sees the way her knuckles whiten over the steering wheel. He listens to the barely concealed panic in her voice as Baltimore bleeds away outside the car windows. 

“The informant?”

She bobs her head. “Do you think he’s the Ripper?”

“I find it highly unlikely, although I am certain he was not lying.”

“About what part?” 

“Perhaps any of it,” Hannibal says. “He knew to call you; he must have known you’ve been involved in the case. He provided Ms. Lounds with information beyond the scope of released details. And he remained anonymous, out of the spotlight himself, until now. He knows the Ripper personally. They may be allies.”

“Why?” she croaks. “Why is he doing this now?”

Hannibal straightens in his seat, looks out the windshield ahead. “Because we’ve been getting close. Perhaps you most of all.”

“Close to what? The Ripper? We have nothing, Jack has nothing, the only thing we have,” Miriam swallows. “The only thing we have is the sounds. The animals. And that hardly explains anything.”

“You said so yourself.” Hannibal lowers his voice to a murmur. “What has been happening may be beyond our understanding.”

She shivers. Bites down on her bottom lip. 

The last of the city lights fade behind them.

 

*

 

The GPS guides them to a lonely stretch of road. 

“The website said this place closed down years ago,” Miriam offers into the silence that has descended the car. “I think we’re almost there.”

Hannibal checks the distance, sees their final point approaching on the map. It’s enough out of the way that they haven’t passed another car in a few miles. The woods have grown denser and denser around them, branches curling over the road in a shadowed web.

“Jack should be close behind,” he says. “It may be wise for us to pull over and wait here.”

Miriam shakes her head. “The local police should be there already.”

No flashing red and blue lights cut through the darkness ahead.

She seems to take notice of this as the words leave her mouth, a frown creasing her forehead. The car slows progressively, but it doesn’t stop.

“You called them, right?” the agent asks, takes her eyes from the road to glance at Hannibal. He meets her rounded pupils in the near pitch black. 

“Of course,” he says. 

The car decelerates further.

“What did they say?” She stares back. 

The navigation system beeps to signal that their destination is before them by a mere hundred feet.

“That they would be there as soon as possible,” Hannibal assures her, even as his fingers reach into the pocket on his other side. 

Her phone sits on the console between them. Her eyes dart down to it before she looks back up at him, then quickly out the window.

The car slams to a halt.

Hannibal braces against his seat belt at the last second, narrowly avoids crashing into the dashboard, but when he swerves to look back at Miriam, her eyes are not on him. They’re wide and panic-stricken, glued to the road. Her mouth is open and she’s panting in quick breaths. He doesn’t turn from her, but his eyes trace hers to the space in front of the headlights. 

It’s empty.

“D-do, do you,” she whispers, almost a whine, “do you see that?”

There is nothing there. To Hannibal's sight, at least.

“See what?” he whispers back.

Miriam doesn’t move her eyes away from the road. Her whole body shakes as she throws the car into park, fumbles to unbuckle her seat belt. She pulls the gun from her side holster with one hand and places the other one on the door handle.

“What do you see?”

Miriam hesitates, her body tense with restrained motion. “It’s gone.”

Hannibal unbuckles his own seat belt. “What is gone?”

The agent pushes at the handle and takes an unsteady step out of the car. 

Hannibal watches her from within. She raises her gun, shuffles around the edge of the still-open door. Her head turns towards either side of the road as she steps in front of the car, onto the illuminated pavement. Her silhouette is still the only thing he sees, but he knows. He knows, because he can smell death and thunder on the outside air. 

Miriam lowers the gun a fraction and turns her head towards him. Her face is as dark as the surrounding forest.

There’s a scream.

Both pairs of eyes swing towards the trees. There’s a path in the woods beside the car, a small building nestled in the forest at the end of it. Its steeple peeks through the canopy of branches, the pale exterior stark against the moonless night, and its windows glow orange beneath half-boarded glass.

Hannibal moves to get out of the car, but Miriam holds up her hand.

“Don’t,” she says. He can’t see her expression, but her voice is firm. “Stay here.”

She doesn’t wait for his response. Just raises the gun and begins walking towards the church. He stays until she has all but disappeared into the dark, before opening his door and following.

The woods are hushed and motionless. 

He treads mindfully, trailing at a distance and keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the agent’s head. He sees her approach the structure. Her hesitance as she creeps up to one of the windows, looks inside. The lines of her back and shoulder, unmoving. He can see her visibly reach for her pocket, the one she keeps her phone inside, before she realizes she left it in the car. Her head falls and she brings her second hand up to the gun. Pauses. 

Finally, she steps around to the front and opens the door. Light spills out for a moment before it swings shut behind her.

Hannibal suddenly knows he’s not alone.

He takes his eyes from the church and looks to the path behind him. 

A woman stands not five feet away, skin ghostly white and mouth dark with lipstick. Her hands are stuffed into an overcoat cinched at the waist, her stance casual but brimming with confidence.Through the little light he has to see by, Hannibal thinks her hair might be red.

“Tell Will we’re even,” Freddie says. “And thanks in advance for the story.”

His lips part without conscious effort, and Hannibal is at a loss for words. 

“What, you think he’s the only thing that goes bump in the night?” She smiles.

He blinks, and she’s no longer there.

Hannibal’s pulse climbs higher. A giddy, nervous excitement bubbles up within him at the lovely treachery of it all, and he can feel them now. The eyes in the trees. Watching him and waiting.

He turns and walks towards the church, so they won’t have to wait any longer.

 

*

 

The building is plain on the inside. White walls and wooden ceiling beams, a Spartan rectangular floor plan with an arched roof overhead. A damp scent cloaks the space.

Just beyond the door, the aisle is shrouded in shadow. It grows brighter as it stretches towards the apse, revealing bare timber pews flanking either side. Candlelight crawls up the walls behind the altar. The flames illuminate the mildewed residue of a crucifix long-removed. 

Below it, Will waits.

Miriam stands in the aisle between them.

“Glad you could make it, Dr. Lecter.” Will sounds amused.

The agent leaves her gun trained on him, but twists to the side so she can keep Hannibal in her sights too. A sickened realization has befallen her face, her recognition of Will a final catalyst for the pieces falling into place. She doesn’t allow it to distract her from the situation at hand. 

“I’ll ask you again: where is Freddie Lounds?”

Hannibal clears his throat. 

“I do not believe you’ll have to worry about her.”

Miriam swings the gun around, finger twitching over the trigger. Her voice is steel underlaid with rising fear. 

“You set me up.”

Hannibal spares a glance for the metal barrel aimed at his chest, then looks back towards Will. The other man has not moved. The candles atop the altarpiece flicker around him, his curls haloed in an ethereal glow. 

“Jack isn’t coming.” Miriam chokes out. “It’s you. You’re the Ripper.”

Will extends his hand, beckoning, and Hannibal takes a step further into the church.

“Stay back!” the agent shouts.

Will looks at him expectantly.

Hannibal takes another step.

Miriam tightens her hold on the gun and squeezes the trigger.

He feels the bullet hit him through a haze. He staggers back, lifts a hand to the open hole in his side. The blood that coats his palm is slick and wine-dark. Beautiful, even, in the low, warm light. He looks back up.

Will’s hand remains raised. 

Hannibal braces himself, and takes another step forward.

Miriam blanches and raises the gun again. Then she freezes. 

She drops it and screams, hands flying to her ears as she crashes backwards into a pew, writhes inwards in a rictus of pain. She lifts her head and stares out the open doors behind Hannibal. He feels the crackle of electricity, even if he cannot hear it.

“No, no, no, no,” Miriam shakes her head, falls to her knees. She tries to grab for the gun but ends up knocking it further away. Her fingers curl back into her hair and she hisses, stares frantically at the path outside the church. “What, what even-”

Will still waits.

With a hand pressed to his waist, Hannibal walks to join him.

The agent mumbles as he passes her. She claws at his pant leg, nails scratching into the cotton, but he pays her little mind. It’s not hard to move away from her weak grip, even less difficult to stay focused on the hand outstretched towards him. Blood drips down his suit sleeve and spatters against the floor. Like fallen petals, it trails him down the aisle.

The visceral ache in his torso is of secondary concern as he takes the first step up onto the altar. Takes another. He nearly stumbles, but Will takes his hand. Curls fingers around his own and steadies him with a palm cupped against his cheek.

“Do you see?” Will asks him. 

He smiles, and his eyes are as golden as Hannibal remembers. Even more consuming than the flames around them. Boundless and possessive and gleefully wicked.

Miriam’s screams are muted to his ears now that Will’s voice fills them instead.

“You made a promise to me, in that field. You made an offering and I accepted. But it wasn’t the replacement you left me.”

Hannibal sways on his feet, leans forward without meaning to, but Will rights him. Digs a thumb into his jaw. His other hand untangles their fingers and pries the older man’s grip away from the wound.

“Though I admit you charmed me with your theatricality.”

Will guides Hannibal’s arm down, tightens his grasp in warning. Then his fingers crawl back up the suit jacket, skim the torn fabric, and dig inside. Hannibal flinches and his nerves shriek in agony, but he stands rooted in place. Lets Will push into him and scrape around his gut.

“I’ve had my eyes on you for a long time. On your work first, then the man behind it.” 

Will draws his fingers away, tips coated in fresh blood.

“All I needed was a reason for you to owe me, an excuse. The suitable grounds for a pact.”

Hannibal watches as the fingertips dip inside Will’s mouth. As he takes a taste.

“This,” Will purrs, tilting his head. “This has been a formality. A display much like one of your own, and a bit of fun. My own little theatrical promise to you.” 

His fingers anchor themselves in the back of Hannibal’s hair. The thumb against the older man’s face strokes his cheekbone, nail leaving a line of split skin. Hannibal can do nothing but listen. 

“I accept your apology,” Will says.

He parts bloodstained lips.

“And in return: in this life and the next, and any that come after that, you are bound to me. You’re mine, Hannibal. For as long as I want.”

Will leans forward and kisses him.

The last of the screams die out, replaced by the sounds of tearing meat.

Hannibal stares, everything within him dulled in the face of this exact moment, this exact point in time. The reigns slip from his grasp, and Will gladly takes over. He draws Hannibal closer, seals them together before their hungry onlookers.

“It'll be worth the wait,” Will murmurs against his mouth.

He digs a canine into Hannibal’s bottom lip. Holds on. 

“After all," he says, licking at the blood between them, "your heart is going to be delicious.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (see end notes in epilogue ->)


	6. Epilogue & Art

 

* * * * *

 

__

_**NIGHTMARE AT WOLF TRAP CHURCH: HOW I SURVIVED A STARTLING TWIST IN THE RIPPER INVESTIGATION**_

_As a reporter, my job takes me up close and personal with many heinous crimes, but I have never been as close as I got this past week. In a turn of events that can only be described as shocking, I was held captive for five days by none other than an FBI agent assigned to the Ripper case._

_Agent Miriam Lass, 34, had been working in Wolf Trap since the FBI discovered the body of Morgan Hall. She had been with the force for five years, had good rapport with her coworkers, and was a favored subordinate of Jack Crawford, head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Agent Crawford declined to comment for this article._

_Due to the contents of my most recent reports, namely my inclusion of local myths and their connections to the Ripper murders in Wolf Trap, Agent Lass sought me out. She believed I might have been genuinely onto something and that my source could have proved key to solving the case. I am here to say that my “source” was no more than a collection of local haunting enthusiasts. I was able to relay details from the Ripper crime scenes through overhearing conversations between FBI technicians the morning they removed Ms. Hall’s body._

_However, believing that I was withholding information and driven increasingly convinced that the supernatural element to my story was true, Agent Lass began to threaten me in a series of phone calls. When I refused to engage her, she appeared at my apartment and demanded to be let in. I had no choice but to open the door._

_What followed was almost too horrific to recount here. I managed to escape in the final hours of my captivity, but not before another victim of Agent Lass’ obsession became involved. Hoping that another person could influence me to talk, Agent Lass abducted Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a Baltimore psychiatrist that had been working alongside her on the Ripper case. I was unable to help him before I broke free, but he was found - unconscious from a gunshot wound - at the Old Haven Church in Wolf Trap shortly before I was able to find help._

_The two women who discovered Dr. Lecter had been in town due to a fascination with the area’s history. They were visiting the church, which has been closed down for nearly a decade, as part of a self-guided haunted sites tour. I later found out that some of you, my faithful readers, had posted in the forum section of this website about the possibility of meeting there that night (and while I appreciate your dedication, I must ask that you refrain from trespassing in the future!). However, in this case, I am forever grateful that you were just as eager to search for your own answers as I have always been._

_You have saved a man's life as a result._

_Dr. Lecter is expected to make a full recovery, but Miriam Lass is still at large. Once I have had the time to process things, I will be drafting the events into a book I hope will shed some light on the epidemic of instability in law enforcement and the danger of obsessive belief. Until then, I ask that you remain assured that I am safe and will continue to fight for the pursuit of justice and truth._

 

_Signing off for now, Tattlecrime._

_-Freddie Lounds_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO, thank you all for sticking with me! Hope there were enough surprises to hold your interest throughout, and that the creepy-romantic (?) ending worked out for you. And yes, heavily hinted at, but Will is something akin to a demon. Freddie Lounds is ??? and I definitely left some other stray ends to explore if I decide to write anything more for this 'verse in the future. I won’t deny that it’s a possibility. This Hannibal and Will have such a fun dynamic to play with.
> 
> Also, I used to draw a lot before I got knocked out of commission by some health issues, so getting back into the Hannibal fandom and having the excuse to sketch my own stories has been great (I’m a little rusty though, haha). I've already been posting some other Hannibal art on Tumblr, [so check it out here if you're interested](https://miasmatik.tumblr.com/tagged/mine)! 
> 
> And as always, your kudos are amazing, but your comments (no matter how small) make my day. I'm never not excited to hear what you guys think <3


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